


the truth will out

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Gen, George Fancy is Fine!, Mild Blood, Peter Jakes Didn't Leave Oxford
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-02 11:43:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: In a world where people are born with extra talents, powers if you will, life in Oxford is interesting to say the least. From the mundane to the frankly terrifying, the Cowley team and co. are a strange bunch, but it makes the cases a whole lot more intriguing.(superpower/magic au, ongoing, tags will change)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello it's me again, impulse publishing before I finish the fic lol, but never fear I have some more already written and the whole thing is planned out so like, I promise to finish this! I just WEH fell in love with the idea of giving everyone super powers and it accidentally became a whole Thing™. more characters will turn up, but for now! morse! 
> 
> please enjoy <3 
> 
> set somewhere when jakes never left and george fancy is alive and well bc i want my whole dumbass family together
> 
> WARNING for blood in this chapter

This case has dragged out across nearly a whole week now. A real mystery, this one, despite having some of the best brains in Oxford on it. How does a surgeon with the very rare ability (and quite frankly dangerous) to pause time, wind up dead in the middle of the road, forty miles from anywhere he should have been? They didn’t even have a murder weapon, just a hole through the mans heart that didn’t seem to have been made by any recognisable blade. 

Jakes and Morse have, till this afternoon, been questioning Rosie Richards who lived on the street Dr. Sutherland had turned up on. They had been working their way down the houses, trying to find any connections between the victim and those on the street, but it was a laborious task. So far, nothing. Something about Ms. Richards though seems different.

“She’s lying.” Morse says with a hand pushed to his head, eyebrows pinched. Jakes grunts around the cigarette hanging from his lips. 

“I’m gonna need a bit more than that to go on.” 

Morse sighs, and rifles through his pocket till he pulls out a few paracetamol, loose. He takes them dry and gives Jakes a sour look. “That’s not how it works.” 

Jakes shrugs and flips the case folder on his desk closed. “Then a fat load of use you are.” 

Morse snorts. “You don’t mean that.” Jakes goes to say he couldn’t possibly know that, and then remembers who he’s talking to. Morse  _ does  _ know those sorts of things. Nobody is quite sure how much he knows, talents of the mind are a lot harder to quantify than the rest. Not like Jakes; light is a lot more precise. It’s there or it’s not. Quite often it’s exactly where Jakes wants it to be. The sun never wakes him too early, and streetlamps always seem to burn brighter when he walks under them. A nice, simple talent. 

Morse’s knack for knowing when someone is lying is handy for a copper though, Jakes will give him that. It often happens like that, people are drawn to the lives their talents fit most with. The station is full of people like that; those who never seem to stay hurt, or who can run faster than a train or hear more than any other human usually can. Useful stuff. 

Like the new kid on the team, Fancy who has the somewhat unnerving ability to make himself intangible. Watching him fade out and ghost through walls and desks can be a little disconcerting, but it’s already proved itself useful on more than one occasion. Or Strange, who could sap powers with a simple glance. It was very handy to have him around when suspects with dangerous abilities got tetchy. 

It made for a very good team. 

* * *

Jakes had never thought too much about Morse’s talents. He tried not to, if he was honest. Times might have changed, but opinions rarely did. There has always been a stigma to psychological powers, the belief that they make a person untrustworthy. Who knew what a mind reader might be able to tell about you, nothing was safe with them. Jakes like to think himself an opened minded man, but he wasn’t  _ that  _ open minded. There were things, he believed, should stay in a mans head, not for anyone else to see. 

He liked Morse enough though. An arrogant prick, maybe, but a decent guy and if Jakes had to say it, a good detective. Jakes on the other hand, had been oblivious and was only just now realising the extent of Morse’s powers. 

“It hurts you,” he says softly, after having watched Morse turn white as a sheet as Richards continued to insist she’d never met the doctor. Jakes didn’t need Morse to know the woman was lying, but with every word out of her mouth, Morse looked a little more winded. Morse quite often looked drawn and tired; he was a chronic insomniac and a heavy drinker, no surprise there. This time though, Morse looked more uncomfortable than usual. As Richards continued spouting nonsense, Morse fidgeted; jittery fingers pulling at his collar or his cuffs, one leg bouncing tirelessly against the table leg. Jakes kept one eye on him as he lead the questioning, Morse’s occasional interruption coming out strained. 

It isn’t until Jakes looked over and spied blood dripping from Morse’s nose that he cut Richards off, and jerked a thumb to the door. Morse sped out without question, the woman looking on offended. Jakes stood, thanked her for her time and left too. He could leave her to fume for a while, take a breather. He needed a smoke anyways. 

When he follows Morse out he almost crashes into him, doubled over the other side of the door. He groans as Jakes grabbed his arm and pushed him into one of the corridor chairs. It’s then the pieces fall into place, and he wants to slap himself for not seeing it sooner. The near constant discomfort Morse seems to be in, the popping of painkillers most all the time. The apparent nosebleeds. Morse can’t just see lies, he feels them; and they hurt. 

“She wasn’t just lying,” Morse says, dabbing at the blood with a crumpled handkerchief. “It’s like she actually believed what she was saying. Makes it worse,” he tails off as he sinks deeper into the chair. 

“Worse?” Morse nods, then winces as if doing so hurt. 

“Lies, they’re like… they burn. I can feel them, here,” he runs a hand across his forehead. “Bigger, badder lies burn brighter, I guess.” He laughs to himself and then throws his head back, eyes closed. 

“I’ll be fine, just give me a sec,” he says. Jakes takes in the sight of him, clearly wound down and in pain, and takes pity. With a shrug, the lights on the walls dim, and Jakes turns on his heel. 

“Well I’m going for a smoke, probably grab a coffee. Back here in five?” 

Morse nods, just. 

Jakes returns, a little more than ten minutes later, Strange in tow, and two mugs in hand. Morse seems to have fallen asleep so Jakes nudges him awake with his foot. It takes a moment but Morse blinks himself back into the land of the living. 

“Got you one, thought you could do with it,” he says gruffly. Morse takes it, looking a little suspicious so Jakes tries flashing him a reassuring smile. They’ve only recently stopped the incessant bickering, becoming something more akin to friends than actively hostile coworkers. Morse still doesn’t seem to buy into it wholeheartedly, so Jakes tries something Morse might get. 

“I swear, it’s just coffee, out of the goodness of my heart.” Strange snorts beside him, but Morse’s lips quirk upwards. Jakes drops into the seat beside Morse and smiles. 

“Got you some painkillers too.” Morse shakes his head as he takes a very large mouthful of coffee. 

“I’ve already had some, they’re not the most effec-” Jakes waves a hand.

“Not those kind,“ he points at Strange, who gives Morse a grin. “Him.” 

“Jakes explained about the uh, price of your talents.” He holds out a hand, palm upturned. “Maybe I can help?” Morse looks confused for a moment, and then a little put out, but he must come to the same conclusion Jakes and Strange did because he reaches out his hand too. 

Very carefully, he lets his fingers graze Strange’s. The change is almost immediate. Morse’s shoulders drop, the tightness in his back melts away. 

“Oh.” He says simply. 

“Better?” Jakes asks, even though it’s clearly working. Morse gives him a short smile. 

“Lie to me.” 

Jakes fumbles for a second to come up with something, and then blurts the first thing to come to mind. 

“I’m wearing a thong.” 

Morse winces, and for a second, actual worry flickers through Jakes until he catches himself. Then Morse laughs, so Jakes whacks him on the arm. 

“Very funny. It’s working, I take it?” 

Morse nods, glancing up at Strange over their entwined fingers. When he speaks, he sounds lighter and brighter than Jakes has ever heard him. 

“Yes, yes it is.” 

* * *

With Morse’s insistence that Richard’s is convinced she has done nothing untoward, they manage to uncover the truth. The woman, it turns out, has dedicated her life to studying Dr. Sutherland’s habits and movements, biding her time until she could lure him out, and kill him. He had operated on her mother some twenty years ago and despite his best efforts, had lost her. Revenge was a dish best served cold, and in Rosie Richard’s case that was  _ ice  _ cold. The missing murder weapon had come from her ability to manipulate water, a frozen knife that had simply melted away with the rising sun. 

As Jakes slapped a pair of cuffs on her, he glanced across as Morse. She’d admitted everything, after they’d dug up the records on her mother’s operation. She told the whole truth, and while there was still blood on his collar, Morse looked a little better for it. Not as drawn, or quite so tired. Jakes made a promise to himself, there and then, to be more careful around Morse. Fewer white lies, that sort of thing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2!! i promise there's like,,, some sort of overarching plot to this! i have a Plan i just kinda,,, write as i plan lol ANYWAYS i hope u enjoy the next instalment?
> 
> WARNINGS for drug and blood mentions, themes of human trafficking and prejudices?

Things for the most part were pretty routine in Cowley. There were crimes, they got solved, the boys went for pints to celebrate. Most of the time it was your average smattering of ill-deeds to be dealt with; break-ins, murders, fraud and the like. Unpleasant and quite often horrifying, but nothing most coppers couldn’t handle. Fred Thursday had seen a lot in his years in Oxford, all sorts in London too, and suffice to say there wasn’t a lot of human awfulness he hadn’t already seen. And then, one quiet weekend in August, Rebecca Hunt went missing.

At first, a presumed runaway; 17 years old, tenuous relationship with her mother at best and a boyfriend four years her senior. They looked of course, the case was ongoing but then three days later, Joseph Booth went missing. 42, a teacher, married with his third child on the way. The next morning, Christopher Drake, 36, mechanic, gone a week before his wedding. 

There’s no link between any of them, but it can’t be a coincidence. Missing people happen, sure, but this close together? Thursday has the files all open on his desk, pipe in hand, but he can’t for the life of him see a connection. 

It’s Morse who realises, of course it is. He comes running into his office, out of breath with a book in hand. Five days straight on a case have run the poor man ragged, and before he can talk Thursday nods to the chair across from his. 

“Sit down Morse, you look like you're about to drop.” The constable looks like he wants to argue, but he can’t, not when Thursday says it like that. It’s often quite hard to refuse Fred Thursday, impossible actually; the power of persuasion is strong like that. It’s a powerful talent, and in the hands of anyone else could be pretty dangerous, but Thursday is a good man at heart. Most people tend to do what he asks anyway, he’s earnt that respect through his own hard graft. Morse though, sometimes needs the extra nudge, for his own good. 

Thursday nods to the book in the detective’s hand. Upon closer inspection, Morse has a few scraps of paper stuck between the pages too. He picks them out and places them atop the files on Thursday’s desk. 

“It’s their powers,” Morse says, laying the pieces out to their respective files. One hand taps the book. 

“Rebecca Hunt, only just coming into hers. She talks about wanting to be happier, and then here,” he flips the journal open finding a page and pushing it towards Thursday. “She says her mother was strangely nice.” Thursday looks up and meets his eye. 

“You think she has some sort of persuasion?” Morse shrugs. 

“I was thinking more along the lines of emotional manipulation? Only because if that is the case,” he waves at the papers atop Booth and Drake’s pictures. 

“It’s the same for these two. Booth had to register his when he started teaching, he can sway moods, reportedly keeps his classroom quite calm. Drake’s manager got back to me, said he could imbue feelings, like a reverse empath. People leave feeling a lot better about their cars after he’s had a go at them.” 

Thursday nods, glancing over the evidence Morse has given him. They’re no closer to knowing why, but they might know how the three are linked. 

“So someone’s got it out for anyone with sensus manipulation?” 

Morse snorts, falling back into his chair.

“That’s nothing new, is it?” 

* * *

As far back as records go, people have always wanted more. Money, land, riches, power. And as long as people have wanted, they have been willing to pay; and if someone is willing to pay, there’s someone else willing to provide. Markus Williams is not the first to organise a black market trade in unique powers, but he’s the first in Oxford for at least three hundred years. It seems the kidnappings this week have been in aid of some kind of auction, to the sick kind of individuals who believe they can bend other’s power to their will. There are ways, vile as they are, of separating the man from his magic. Crude, barbaric practices outlawed years ago, now being used in dark back alleys.

It’s a dangerous situation. If they rush in, it’s more likely than not any captives will be killed. What they need is insider intel, someone to find out where the victims have been taken, and how to get them out. 

“What we need is someone on the inside,” Jakes says, hands on his hips as he stares at the organised chaos that is their incident board. There’s the start of a smile on his lips that Thursday really doesn’t like the look of. 

“According to what Strange found, sir there’s a…” Jakes glances at Strange, who looks up from his notes. 

“Buyers night,” he offers. 

“Yeah, buyers night on tonight. To demonstrate the goods, as it were.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and fixes Thursday with a long look. 

“I’m an elemental, the most basic of them all. Least suspicious, least dangerous; nobody would bat an eye.” 

Thursday’s jaw tenses, and he can feel the headache starting already. He wants so badly to tell Jakes he should stay put, not to risk his life walking into the lion's den. Undercover jobs have never been his favourite. But there are at least three lives at stake, and this could be their only in. Unease settles deep in his gut, as he nods, once. 

“Alright. But you stay safe Jakes, you hear me?” 

* * *

Morse corners Jakes, right before he leaves that night, in the men's bathroom of all places. Tries to explain why he should be coming too. 

“You aren’t coming Morse.” He’s picking his words so carefully, but it’s harder than he realises. People tell little white lies all the time, say things they don’t really mean, and he’s trying  _ so  _ hard not to slip up. He straightens his tie, glancing in the mirror. He’s slicked his hair back more, swapped his warm-toned jacket for something a bit more black-tie. There’s a ring on his finger, expensive cufflinks peeking from his blazer. Enough to scream ‘I’m a rich bastard with a Napoleon complex’ without being too obnoxious about it. 

“Jakes, don’t be stupid, you can’t go alone, I’m coming with you!” 

“No you’re not!” That one, he supposes falls in a grey area. Morse thinks, no is  _ sure  _ he’ll be coming with him, does that make it a lie? He doesn’t have time to ask him though, because Thursday told him to be on time, the words burning somewhere in the back of his mind. His feet move faster of their own accord. 

He could order Morse to stay, but that won’t do much, since when has Morse followed orders. He pushes past Morse, stalks from the bathrooms, back to his desk. Morse follows hot on his heels. 

“It’s dangerous.” Not a lie.

“We don’t need you.” Not strictly a lie, they know William’s gang are a bunch of lying criminal scum. They don’t need Morse for that. He still flinches though. 

“I don’t want you coming.” Not a lie, he tells himself, yet Morse still recoils. He grits his teeth and looks at Jakes with such a flame in his eye, Jakes can’t look him in the eye. 

“Don’t lie to me Jakes.” 

“I’m not.” Morse sways on the spot, and he has to grab the desk that stands between them. Jakes’ chest tightens, and Thursday’s order makes his ears ring again. He wishes the inspector was here now so he could order Morse to stay put. He should have asked him to do that hours ago. 

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

Morse’s legs give out. He lands in the chair with a thud, one hand on his head. 

“They’re… like me, Peter. My people. I have to help.”

Jakes looks away instead, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. 

“This is for your own good Morse.” He doesn’t look back to see if it was a lie. The pit in his stomach tells him that. 

* * *

It’s surprisingly simple to get in. It’s an old bookshop, so the sign outside the window would have you believe. Jakes just has to flash the wad of cash in his pocket, and ask the doorman if he knows where to get a good drink, and he’s ushered into the world of Markus Williams. 

A pretty little blonde takes his coat and another equally gorgeous girl offers him a drink as they pass through a narrow maze of bookcases, before a door opens up into a small backroom. It smells like smoke and dirty money, and Jakes hopes there’s nobody else turning up because it already feels a little cramped. The far side is roped off with curtains, presumably hiding another door. A man appears from the small crowd, short and thin, a salesman's grin plastered on his face. 

“Ah, welcome…” he says, voice too sickly to be charming. Jakes swallows down his disgust and offers his hand. 

“Henry Fowler. Markus Williams, I assume?” Williams takes his hand, and as he does, an unsettling wave of  _ something  _ washes over Jakes. 

“That’ll be me,” he says, and then grins again. He must notice Jakes unease, because he slaps a hand on his back - making the horrible feeling grow. “Don’t mind this, just a dampening field. You understand?” He sure does, of course Williams is going to protect himself, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. He’s never gone without his power, and it’s unsettling to know it’s not there, or that it  _ is  _ but he can’t feel it. They had assumed this would be the case, but Jakes really wished Strange had prepared him for it a bit more. 

He throws back the drink that someone has pushed into his hand at some point, and it makes him feel a little better. Williams nods, offers him a chair and tells him the show will start shortly. Jakes finds himself tucked in a corner, and the blonde girl from earlier drapes herself across his shoulders. Any other time he might have let himself enjoy the attention, but the feeling of her hands on him only add to his unease. As the lights dim, and the curtain is drawn, Jakes takes another swig. He has a feeling he’s going to need it.

He manages to keep up an interested face, he doesn’t arouse suspicion. He seems them bring out the drugged and bound victims, as well as two more they weren’t aware of. He commits their faces to memory, makes note of the powers they possess. He’s calm and cool and collected, until the last girl they bring out, a woman he should say somewhere in her mid twenties. Her eyes scan the room, and for a split second, they meet his. 

It’s like she’s in his head suddenly, because she doesn’t more her lips but clear as anything he hears her voice. It echoes around his head, pleading. 

_ Why won’t you help me Peter?  _

She’s hurried off before he can react, and Williams is up and speaking about something, but Jakes ears are ringing. The blonde on his arm is pressing her lips to his jaw, and his glass has been refilled so he downs it in one. He wants nothing more than to run from here, to get  _ out _ but he has to keep up the act. He has to play nice, pretend he isn’t disgusted by everything that he’s seen tonight. He still has to get out of here alive. 

* * *

He finds his way back to the station just over an hour later, lipstick on his collar and too much whiskey in his system, but information enough. He knows where the victims are being held, where the ‘sales’ will happen. They can plan a rescue from it all, he hopes. He plans on writing up at least the basics of his findings because doubtless Morse will be in before him and ready to go before Jakes manages to drag himself out of bed. 

The lights are nearly all off this time of night, the occasional desk lamp giving out a soft warm glow to match the warm buzz running through Jakes’s veins. The argument from earlier is all but forgotten, until he rounds a corner and catches sight of the figure slumped over Morse’s desk.

He freezes for a second, considers leaving. Morse was pissed at him, that probably hasn’t changed, and the last thing Jakes wants now is a moody Morse needling him about the case. On the other hand, he probably shouldn’t leave him asleep at his desk like this, and if Thursday finds him like this come morning, it’ll no doubt be Jakes fault somehow. 

Sighing, he throws his notebook onto his desk and starts peeling off his jacket, nudging on Morse’s lamp as he does so. From the corner of his eye, he spots the man stir, and goes to say something snarky but when Morse lifts his head Jakes gets a figurative punch to the gut. 

His eyes are hazy, his hair a mess and there’s dried blood caked around his nose. It’s caught on his lip, dripped onto his shirt, there’s even specks on the papers he has littered about his desk. A pile of dirty tissues fill the bin beside the desk, evidence of god knows how much time Morse spent trying to staunch the bleeding. 

“Shit, Morse, you alright?” Jakes asks stupidly. Morse’s jaw works for a moment, and then he croaks. 

“Fine.” Another drop of blood drips onto the desk. Jakes stares, confounded. Morse uses his elbow to wipe at the small puddle that has formed on the desk. 

“What the hell… happened?” He asks. Morse doesn’t look up as he answers. 

“Someone lied to me.” 

Guilt burned across Jakes’ face, and then settle, acidic in his stomach.

“It’s not so bad you know, if they just lie in front of me. Twinges a bit. Hurts like hell when they do it to my face though.” At that, he looks up, and there’s fury written across his face. 

“It certainly doesn’t help when you then get people come along and try to tell you things like ‘don’t worry matey, he’ll be fine’ or ‘you’re better off here Morse’.” 

“I couldn’t stop them saying that, you can’t pin that on me-” 

“Wouldn’t have been so bad if you hadn’t-”

“It was for your own good!” 

“I would have helped! This is all because  _ you  _ don’t trust me!” 

Something about that gets Jakes hackles up. The thought of the girl from earlier, her voice in his head. The feeling of being completely vulnerable to her, it makes him shudder. 

“Trust?! You read people’s minds, how can  _ anyone  _ trust you?” 

Morse suddenly stands, knocking the desk he moves with such force.

“Don’t start that shit with me Jakes.”

“It’s creepy Morse, and you know it, nobody wants you rifling around in their heads.” 

“You say that like I  **want** to know! You think I enjoy this?” He waves at his face. “That I enjoy blistering headaches anytime someone tells a little white lie?” 

Maybe it’s the whiskey in his system, but Jakes can’t stop himself from snorting.

“Serves you right, doesn’t it. Psychic freak!” It comes out with more venom than Jakes means, and he realises he’s been yelling. He really does run his mouth sometimes doesn’t he? 

Morse stands there, fists clenched and eyes burning. Jakes realises what he’s done, what he’s said, what  _ everyone  _ says about Morse’s kind. The acrid bitter taste of guilt makes a sudden reappearance. 

“Look Morse, I’m sor-” 

“Don’t say it.” Morse’s voice is cold and hard, and Jakes hates it. He hates feeling  _ sorry  _ for Morse. Morse grabs his coat, flicks off the flight and then storms across the room. He stops just short of Jakes, shoulders almost touching. Up close, Jakes can see there’s fresh blood trickling down Morse’s face. 

“You don’t even mean it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!! i have never written cases before lol i ?? hope im doing this right! again, would love to hear any feedback n stuff <3 thank yall for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, this has just become me shamelessly writing for myself, i understand if yall hate where this is going lol i just enjoy torturing myself lOooll
> 
> this chapter is longer than the others, whoops, but i didn't know where to cut it if i should so? i hoep yall enjoy? idk this is just dumb at this point but im having a lot of fun with this. pls dont question the rules of this universe too much okay
> 
> also WARNING CHANGE this has um, become a bit Major Character Death-y... whoops? 
> 
> other WARNINGS include: descriptions of violence, blood and descriptions of (young) corpses

The next morning Morse is in before just about anyone else, sick of staring at his ceiling and listening to Jakes’ words rattling around his head. He’ll admit he’s never slept all that well, and it’s always worse after a night of heavy lies. Like a hangover, with none of the enjoyment of the drinking. 

At the station he barely manages to sit down at his desk before the phone is ringing. A young woman, found dead by the postman, her body left draped over a bin down some side street. He notes down the address, then picks up his coat and the keys to the Jag. He can pick up Thursday on the way. It’s only as he’s pulling out of the station car park, that he realises why the address sounded familiar; the same street Jakes visited last night. 

As he walks over and spies the face of the girl, turned skywards, his heart sinks. It’s Rebecca Hunt. 

* * *

Morse had walked into the morgue on many occasions, to all sorts of odd and sometimes unsettling things. Thankfully there were no organs in dishes or scalpels in corpses today, but the scene still took Morse by surprise. 

He had dropped Thursday off at the station, but had a few leads of his own to follow, the morgue being the last stop of the afternoon. He walks through the doors as the clock in the hallway chimes two.

DeBryn is bent over a Rebecca’s body, and while there is nothing all that unusual in that, there is in the crackling light the splinters out from the doctor. 

Of course, Morse knew about DeBryn’s talents, everyone knew about them. The pathologist who could speak to the dead, well commune with them, sort of. Quite fitting really. It was another one of those unusual powers, hard to quantify, although not as uncommon as one might think. DeBryn was pretty quiet about it though, always doing so in the privacy of his lab. As Morse walked in on this particular visit, he understood why. It was slightly terrifying. 

DeBryn’s coat is draped over a chair and he has his sleeves rolled up, gloves gone. His hands hover an inch or two above her body, the bright glow seeming to emanate from them. His glasses are folded neatly on a tray, because his eyes, unseeing, are shining with the same unearthly energy. 

At the sound of Morse’s feet stuttering on the tiles, DeBryn’s head turns. 

“ _ Oh, Morse, we weren’t expecting you so soon _ .” The voice is all at once DeBryn and someone else entirely, and it makes the hairs on the back of Morse’s neck stand on end. The doctor, realising this, suddenly is back to normal, and pushing on his glasses before Morse has time to say a word. 

“My apologies,” he says with a smile, shrugging his lab coat back on as though he hadn’t just been doing something incredibly supernatural. That was almost more jarring than the actual communing-with-the-dead part. 

“I usually try not to work with an audience, it can be a little unnerving. How can I help you?”

Morse manages to gather his wits, just about, and ask if he has cause of death. DeBryn breezes around his lab, pretending not to notice the way Morse’s wary eyes follow him around. 

“A bodged job actually,” he says, handing over his notes to Morse. “Toxicology shows all manner of nasties in her bloodstream, household cleaners, that sort of thing. Then I assume someone got impatient, and knocked her round the head a few times. Going by the pattern, or lack thereof, I’d say they were rather in a hurry.”

Morse flicks through the folder, keeping his eyes firmly on the paper and not the body. DeBryn watches him pace as he reads, the agitation clear in his body language. It probably doesn’t help Rebecca held a power the same kind as Morse. Still, by the way Morse is holding the file with some disregard, DeBryn can’t help but assume Morse is more concerned with DeBryn’s power than anyone else's. 

The doctor sighs. The precious few who have ever seen him contact the deceased all reacted like this, and there were always questions. He readied himself as Morse came to a stop, eyes still stuck on the file despite the fact he was clearly finished reading. 

“You sounded like her.” He says after a long pause. “At least I assume that’s what, uh  _ she  _ sounded like.” He indicated to the body with the corner of the papers. “But also, like yourself?’ It’s phrased as a question, Morse’s voice softening into the lilt it does when he’s too uncomfortable to ask something outright. DeBryn crosses his arms over his chest. 

“So I’ve been told.” Morse nods, slow and distracted. “Oh, out with it Morse, I promise whatever you ask, you won’t be the first.” That gets him a shy smile. 

“How does it work then?” He asks, fingers playing with curling edges of the paper. DeBryn gives him a wry smile and goes to move towards his office. 

“Why don’t we sit and have a drink? You’ve probably got more questions than you thought.”

Morse doesn’t begrudge the hour or so he spends in DeBryn’s office. He doesn’t particularly feel like facing Jakes, and if anyone asks he can genuinely say he was working on a lead. At one point, DeBryn heads out to finish the reading he had been in the middle of, this time with Morse shadowing him from the corner. He watches the doctor’s careful movements, slow and precise way his hands find the spot where one might have found a pulse, and then the sparkling crack of energy, of  _ other  _ that pours out of DeBryn. 

“She felt guilty,” he says, with an accent that has a slight twang of something, maybe Irish, in it. It’s a lot softer than the pathologists normal voice that’s for sure. 

“There’s remorse, and-” DeBryn grimaces, and then just like that the magic is gone. The light gone, DeBryn stand slumped, hands curled in front of him on the table. 

“Doctor?” 

“Fear.” He sighs, runs a hand across his face and tries to smile at Morse. It isn’t the most convincing. “There’s always fear.” 

Morse leave the morgue a little in awe of DeBryn, and reminding himself to ask the man out for drinks the next time there’s a particularly gruesome case. 

* * *

Morse doesn’t see Jakes the rest of the day, for which he is eternally grateful. They’ve had their differences, sure but he had thought they were moving past them. Becoming something more akin to friends. It was one thing for Jakes to try and push him off the case, but to lie to his face? Not to mention resorting to insults about his powers; it was the exact same kind of shit he’d had thrown at him his whole life. Nobody at school had wanted to sit next to the mind reader, he might cheat, no matter how many times he told them it didn’t work like that. It had been one of the factors in leaving Oxford the first time too, when he became the plaything of drunken classmates who wanted to see just how much Pagan could take before his brain blew out. 

His own father had sneered at him for it, perhaps because it was another trait he shared with his mother. Gwen used to like ‘forgetting’ about it, reminding him of things that simply weren’t true just to watch him squirm. 

Yes, Morse reflected, he was quite glad to be shot of Jakes for the day. 

* * *

The next morning Morse isn’t in quite as early, in part because it’s raining and miserable and it makes driving that little bit more treacherous. He picks up Thursday at a more reasonable time, ducking his head in greeting as Joan hurries past him on her way out. 

“Lovely wea-” she catches herself as Morse sucks in a breath, preempting the burn. “Tie, Morse, lovely tie you’ve got there.” She grins, flicking at the rather plain blue knot around his neck. He smiles back.

“Thanks.” Thursday watches them and rolls his eyes, ushering Morse out into the rain and back to the car. They talk, a little on the drive in. Despite being rather put out the last few days, Morse is in a better mood this morning. Perhaps it’s the turn in the weather, but he thinks he might not immediately bite Jakes head off today. 

As it turns out, he couldn’t even if he wanted to, because Jakes isn’t sitting at his desk when they get in. Morse pays no mind to the fact though, Jakes isn’t famed for his punctuality. He has reports to file and the belongings of their mystery woman to sort through, enough to keep him busy until gone eleven. Lost in his own work, it isn’t until Thursday pokes his head around his office door that he snaps back to reality. 

“You seen Jakes, Morse?” He asks, pipe between his lips. Morse shakes his head. “Not yet?” Thursday looks puzzled. 

“Huh. How about you Strange; seen Jakes this morning?” 

Strange looks up, pencil crammed between his teeth. “N’uh,” he mumbles around it. 

All three of them share a look, and then Thursday slowly pulls his pipe from his mouth. He gives the station a sweeping glance, then raises his voice. 

“Did anyone see Sergeant Jakes this morning?” 

The chorus of replies all come back negative. Just as Thursday goes to speak, the phone in his office rings. He waves a hand towards Strange. 

“You call Jakes, see if he’s overslept. Find him. Take Fancy if you need.” He says, with the kind of finality that cements the order in Strange’s mind. He ducks into his office to grab the phone, and Morse watches. Then Thursday looks up, mouth set in a grim line and waves him in. 

“They’ve found another body, it’s Booth.” 

* * *

The rain has not let up by any means. The body, which had been dumped down yet another side road, this one around fifteen minutes out from Hunt’s body, is only partially shielded by the awning of the door it lies under. The poor woman who found the body had only been stepping out to grab the bins in, when she all but tripped over the corpse.

Trewlove is already at the scene, arms around the young woman. She ducks her head at Morse in greeting, as she ushers the woman towards a patrol car, where a PC has brought out a shock blanket and someone’s half pack of rich teas. 

Morse stands by the end of the house, a few feet away from where Thursday and DeBryn stand over the corpse. He listens to them with one ear, as they discuss the brutal way in which Booth’s head had been knocked in. He takes a few deep breaths, hoping the rain will disperse the smell of blood, when Trewlove appears beside him again. 

Her hair is face is set in harsh lines, a particularly stern look for the usually cheery WPC. She folds her arms, staring across at the body. Morse watches the rain trace its way down her face as she thinks.

“This doesn’t feel right,” she says. Morse hums in agreement. 

“Not just the body, I mean, all of this. They all vanished so neatly, without a trace.” She turns to Morse, and he can see her rolling ideas around her head.

“Why hide them for what, nearly a week each, if you’re going to dump them out in the open like this? If the bodies had never turned up, it’s quite possible we would never have found them.” Morse scoffs and Trewlove cracks a smile at that. 

“Well, okay, with you on the case sir, I’m sure, but you know what I mean, right?”

Morse can’t help but agree, it does seem an odd choice of action for a group supposedly selling magics. The victims are no use dead, so dropping the bodies is to them, throwing away free money. Morse nods. 

“There’s got to be something we’re missing-” 

The thundering sound of footsteps on wet pavement stops that thought in its tracks. Both Morse and Trewlove turn, and even Thursday’s attention is grabbed by the PC who runs up, looking more than a little pale. 

“Strange on the radio, sir- it’s sergeant Jakes. He’s not at home.” The PC winced as Thursday stalked over to listen in. 

“He’s missing.” 

* * *

If it hadn’t been for the fact she was quite fond of him, Jakes’ landlady, Abigail Owens would have been having stern words with him eventually. One minute, all is quiet, in fact it had been incredibly quiet since yesterday afternoon. Then a policeman turns up, tall fellow looking a little harried, and demands to be let into Jakes’ rooms. 

She allows it, unlocking the door and showing him in, then shuffles back to her door, to watch through the peephole. Within half an hour, at least three more policemen appear, followed by a WPC and a doctor, all barrelling through the hallway so fast they almost knock her down. Then she watches with horror as they discover the body of a man who is most certainly not Peter Jakes.

* * *

Christopher Drake, dead in Jakes apartment bathroom. Morse glances across at Trewlove and can see the same realisation drawing on her face. They’re being played, lead on a merry dance of Oxford. Thursday is crouched beside the toilet, by the body with DeBryn, who has already noted the same puncture wounds and head trauma that was present on the other bodies. Morse is making his way around Jakes’ flat, looking for anything that might point as to where, when or why Jakes has gone. Strange and Fancy across the building, plying Mrs. Owens and Jakes neighbours for any information they might have; the body has been there since the early hours of the morning, so someone  _ must _ have heard something.

Trewlove, meanwhile, has been rifling through Jakes’ bookshelves. She has a hunch, and when she finds an A-Z tucked behind stack of bad romance novels, she tries to connect the dots. 

Morse finds her bent over the table, a ruler in hand as she makes marks on the map. 

“This is where we found Rebecca Hunt,” he says. She nods as she crosses off another spot. 

“Then Booth, now Drake.” With one fluid movement, Trewlove runs the pen through each of the marks, extending the line to run through several extra miles either way. They line up eerily well. Trewlove runs her finger along the line. 

“So we find Hunt outside the bookshop, where Jakes was last night. Then Drake is here, in his apartment. Booth, right in the middle…”

A shiver of cold dread starts trickling down Morse’s back, settling somewhere in his stomach as a penny drops. 

“They’re taunting us, showing off. They’ve got Jakes, and they’re laughing at us with.” The sound of movement behind them once again had both detective and PC turning on their heels. 

“What’s all this then?” Thursday asks, his eyes stormy. Morse nudge Trewlove’s map towards him. 

“PC Trewlove’s found the pattern sir, it’s him. Jakes.” 

Trewlove starts running Thursday through the patterns she’s found, Morse’s mind is already racing. He steps around the table, and sticks his head into the cramped bathroom. DeBryn peers up at him from where he kneels on the tiles, and it’s as though he already knows what Morse is going to ask. 

“You believe sergeant Jakes is involved in all of this?” 

“Not at the bottom of it, but he’s at the end. Do you think you could see if-” he gestures to Booth’s body. DeBryn nod, already reaching for his glasses. 

“Do me a favour and pull the door shut would you? I’ll come find you if I get anything.” 

Morse steps back out, pulling the door as he goes. He tries to return to seeing what clues Jakes well organised dresser can tell them, all whilst decidedly ignoring the glowing tendrils of energy curling from under the door.

Barely a few moments later, DeBryn wrenches the door open, eyes wide and chest heaving. He pushes past Morse and grabs at the map lying on the tale, keen eyes scanning it.

“There,” he says jabbing a finger to spot on the map. “That’s where he was. Where they all were,” his voice catches for a second, and he takes a moment to push his glasses back on. 

“It’s where they took sergeant Jakes.”

DeBryn has picked out a site that currently houses an empty office block, disused and on sale this past year at least. Booth’s last moments had been full of dirty windows and rough carpets, upturned desks and overturned filing cabinets. There are precious few empty offices around Oxford, and only one that lines up with the disturbing game of dot to dot they seemed to be playing. 

Thursday grabs Morse and shoves the Jag’s keys into his hand. 

“You go ahead, take the doctor, Strange and Trewlove. I’ll fetch the cavalry.” 

Morse doesn’t question the orders, feet already speeding for the door. Trewlove follows hot on his heels, and she all but drags Strange from the doorway he stands in. Fancy’s head turns, and his eager eyes light up at the look on Morse’s face. 

“You know where he is?” he asks, quick to follow them out to the car. 

“Fancy.” Morse says, a warning tone in his voice, but the kid’s already got his hand on the car door. 

The inspector in him tells him not to be bloody ridiculous, letting this reckless child follow them into danger. The other part of him tells him Jakes is missing, probably in the hands of the same heathen who effortlessly murdered the people who were about to make him rich; they need all the help they can get. It doesn’t matter either way, because Fancy is in the car now, sliding in the back between Strange and Trewlove. DeBryn hops in the passenger side, map in hand, leaving Morse the wheel. 

At least, Morse thinks, it’s a pretty solid team for storming an active crime scene; Strange and his magic sapping and Trewlove can do much the same for senses, rendering people without sight or sound. He can’t even deny Fancy’s tricks might come in handy. He can only pray they won’t need DeBryn’s. 

* * *

Fancy is first out of the car, before it’s even stopped moving. His whole body shimmers and he’s through the door, feet already crossing the distance towards the offices. Morse out of instinct goes to grab him by the collar, but his fingers slip through the space he should be filling. 

“What are you doing?” he hisses. Strange reaches out a hand to try and grab the errant constable, who ducks out of his reach with a grin. 

“Helping sir!” He replies, by now halfway across the yard. Behind him, the exasperated cries fade out as he finds the door, and carefully sticks his head through. 

It’s dark, all power cut months ago. Though empty a year or so, the offices have been mostly left how they were stood. Someone’s been through and emptied the place of anything remotely useful, leaving the remaining furniture wherever it fell. It gives the whole building a feeling of a dark kind of loneliness. Fancy steps through, and carefully beings making his way down dark corridor after dark corridor. 

At the sound of footsteps,Fancy slips through the door, crossing the threshold just as the sound of laughter floats around the corner. 

“Tell you what though,” a thick London accent says. “If ‘e survives the night, next rounds on me.” The chatter dissolves into more laughter as the figures pass. Their names escape him but Fancy recognises them from the intel folder on Williams’ gang. Lackeys, nothing smarter than that but with heavy hands and wide arms. 

Fancy waits with bated breath for the sound of them to pass. He ducks into the shadows of the corridor, keeping quiet till the footsteps pass. The coast clear, he steps through the wall, and finds himself in what might have once passed for an office. There’s a desk up against one wall, a dilapidated typewriter shoved atop a mountain of paper. Mostly empty bookshelves are overturned, and there’s one chair with a broken armrest in the centre of the room and it’s in the chair Fancy finds his sergeant. 

“Sir?” he manages to whisper. Jakes is bound, hands tied with thick rope to the broken armrests. He stirs a little at the sound of Fancy’s voice and then groans. When he looks up, even in the dim lighting, Fancy can see the quickly purpling bruises across Jakes face. His eyes are red rimmed and glassy, and there’s another length of rope pulled tight around his mouth, gagging him. When he looks up at Fancy, hair stuck to his face in limp curls, his eyes harden. 

He doesn’t need his voice, Fancy can hear the ‘ _ What the hell are you doing hear’  _ well enough. He flashes Jakes the most confident grin he can, and then slides across the room, hands working to undo the thick knot at the back of Jakes’ head. He tries to ignore the sticky mess blood that has already soaked through it. 

He’s got the gag untied, and is working on the second set of knots keeping Jakes in the chair, when the floorboards creak. Both of them freeze, and Fancy tries to hide himself behind Jakes’ chair. He’s not got a weapon on him, so the element of surprise is all he has. He lets himself sink into the wall and watches as Jakes continues to work at the knots, eyes on the door. 

Just as it looks like he’s about to drop the rope, the door creaks open. Slowly, it falls open, revealing one Markus Williams. From behind, Fancy sees Jakes hands tighten, his back stiffen. Anger coils in Fancy’s gut. He knows the face, he knows the case files, and going by Jakes reaction, he can work out the Williams was the one to orchestrate the whole thing. 

With deliberately slow steps, Williams strolls into the room, waving a gun in one hand with the kind of ease that tells Fancy the man has used one before. 

“Well well Sergeant Jakes, you’ve untied yourself,” he says with faux surprise. “How very clever of you.” He swings his arms wide, and Fancy holds his breath as the gun passes Jakes’ face. Fancy waits until his arms land at his side, waiting for the split second his grip relaxes ever so slightly. Then he stands, shimmers, and leaps through Jakes, throwing himself into Williams. 

“George, no!” He hears Jakes choke out, just as William’s hand comes up to defend himself. Jakes must have forgotten in his state, because the bullets will just pass through him, he needn’t worry it’s not as if he’s-  **_solid_ ** . William’s hand meets his chin, the muzzle meets his gut, and before Fancy has time to wonder why he’s flesh and bone again, a bullet tears through his stomach. 

He drops to the ground, this time watching as Jakes leaps over him on unsteady feet. Thankfully William’s is surprised enough by the turn of events that he misses Jakes arm’s coming for him. A terrible growl escapes Jakes’ lips as the now untangled rope finds itself pulled tight around William’s throat. 

The white hot fire that burns through Fancy makes the world go blank for a moment, before a very unhelpful part of his brain reminds him of William’s dampening field. Gritting his teeth, he pulls himself along the floor, till his hand finds the leg of the chair. He pulls himself upright just in time to watch William’s eyes roll back in his head, and him fall as though his strings have all been cut. Jakes, still panting with exertion almost topples over with him. 

Fancy watches as he staggers forward, one hand pressed to his chest. He wants to stand, offer Jakes a shoulder to lean on, but when he tries to push himself up he finds his hand simply glides through the floor. 

“Oh shit,” he manages to say, as his whole body flickers between planes of existence. Jakes makes it across the room, and falls to his knees beside Fancy. 

“You ‘lright?” he asks, pressing a hand to his own chest. His breaths are short and laboured. Fancy nods, meekly. Then he laughs, pulling one of his hands away from his gut and staring at the bloody mess on it. 

“Is this a lot of blood sir?” Jakes manages a laugh, and then immediately doubles over, coughs wracking his body. Fancy winces, he had only meant to lighten the mood. 

“I’m sorry sir,”

“Don’t apologise George.” Fancy flushed, and then pointed towards where Williams lay sprawled out on the floor. 

“Is he-”

“Yes.” 

“Oh. Good. Thanks.”

Silence fills the room, and Fancy’s mind for a second, and he nearly falls into the emptiness before a thought tugs at the back of his mind. 

“Morse, sir, he’s coming, he’s just out there. DeBryn too,” he adds as an afterthought. 

Jakes head turns at that and Fancy sees something promising flicker in his eyes. The seregant inches his way closer to Fancy, and peers at the blood pooling under Fancy’s hand, which is solid once again.

“Y’fine, Fancy. The doc’ll have you patched up in no time.” 

Unlike Morse, Fancy doesn’t care to know if that’s true or not, he’ll take it. He just has to hold on till DeBryn gets here, he’ll know what to do. He just to wait it out and not fall asleep, no matter how heavy his eyelids are. Something cold lands on top of his hands, and when he cranes his neck to look down he spies Jakes’ hand curled loosely around his. 

Jakes has crumpled against the chair leg, head on his chest and breathing far more erratic than it was a few moments ago, but his hand stays steady of Fancy. Despite it all, there’s a fierce streak of protectiveness in Jakes, and it makes hanging on that little bit easier. 

* * *

At the same time, three hallways across the empty site, Morse stalks his way along a dark corridor. Still fuming from Fancy’s insubordination, there’s an angry slant in his movements and he shoulders open a door with perhaps more force than necessary. They are completely at odds here, no idea what they’re going into or who exactly they’re up against. It’s safe to assume Williams is around here somewhere, and a few of his little band of thieves and killers, but beyond that, they’ve gone in blind. 

Speaking of which, Trewlove has turned down the opposite corridor, and DeBryn the third. Strange, after doing a sweep of the perimeter, will hopefully find a route in through the back. It’s not the best plan, but it’ll have to do. 

By the fourth office, Morse’s patience - what was left of it - is growing thin. He turns on his heel to leave and his hand is resting on the handle when, without warning the door is yanked open. Fingers still caught on the door, he’s pulled out into the corridor by a rather tall, burly looking man. Both of them yell in surprise, and Morse uses it to his advantage, scrabbling down the corridor. His long legs usually give him an advantage in situations like this, but he is caught short when, with no warning, he unexpectedly finds himself struggling to breathe. With a groan, he manages to spin, to watch as the bloke he ran into slowly marches towards him, hand outstretched and a devilish grin on his face. An elemental, apparently; it explains the lightness in his feet and the way his coat flutters despite the still air. Morse  _ really  _ should have read those files. 

He finds it is a peculiar feeling, to be robbed of a breath you were halfway through taking, and that was putting it lightly. It is as if all the air had been stolen from his lungs, there was no time to take one last gasping breath; all air just ceased to exist. Fingers scrabble at his throat, but only succeed in marking bright red lines across pale skin. From one blink to the next, the world goes foggy, and then grey, and then Morse thinks that he’s going to die, and then nothing. 

A sudden crack, the searing pain of knees hitting concrete, and then there’s air, sweet air once again. Somewhere, there’s the sound of a man shouting, but Morse is too busy trying to refill his lungs to pay attention. When he finally fills his lungs enough to sit up, he sees Trewlove standing triumphantly over his attacker, who has fallen to his knees too. She looks over at him.

“You alright sir?” Morse nods, as best he can.

Keeping one hand carefully pressed to the back of the man's neck, she fishes a pair of cuffs off her belt. Morse scrambles across the dirty floor and helps snap them into place, whilst Trewlove keeps him subdued. 

Restrained, Trewlove releases him, and the milky sheen drops from his eyes.

“What the fuck,” he spits and Trewlove ignores his cries in favour of hauling him upright and securing him against a radiator pipe. 

“What it,” she says with a warning tone, her hand reaching across as though to slap him. The man flinches, and she smiles tightly. Before Morse can say anything, the sound of more footsteps has them both eyeing the dark corridor. Thankfully, it’s Strange who comes into view. 

“You found him?” he asks, hand automatically clamping down on the suspect’s shoulder. Morse, still rubbing at his aching neck, rasps. 

“Not yet, and no word from DeBryn either-” he’s interrupted by the sudden crack of gunfire. All three sets of finely honed ears are drawn towards the sound, and as one they take off, leaving the trussed up, powerless lacky alone in the dark. 

Morse’s feet hit the ground a little faster, spurred on by the adrenaline crashing through him. His heart pounds painfully in his ears. They can’t be too late, they can’t be. 

The lights on the walls, old and broken, struggle to life. They flicker, like desperate cries, on off on off on- and there’s a pattern in their tremors. Morse recognises it of course he does, he would, it’s saying S.O.S it’s a cry for help. 

There’s no point being subtle now, no sneaking around, so he lets himself call out. 

“Jakes? Fancy?!” 

If it brings guns blazing then so be it, he will not see his men die today. The closer they get, the faster the lights flash, a warning perhaps, or a guiding light, they can’t be sure. As they past a stairwell, DeBryn falls into place beside them but Morse doesn’t have time for niceties. There’s a room, some fifty feet away that seems to be glowing. Light bleeds out through the cracks around the door, a struggling pulse of blinking light. 

Morse doesn't even slow, he just crashes right through and comes to a screeching halt in a room full of bodies. His heart leaps to his throat, because all three men are on the floor, and it doesn’t look like any of them are moving; but then Fancy’s head perks up.

“You made it!” He says with an unearned optimistic tone. Jakes’s head snaps up next, looking god awful, and he gives Morse a halfhearted grin. 

“Wotcher Morse, how you doin’?” He wheezes. Morse drops to his side, hands out and ready to do  _ something  _ though he’s not sure what he can do right now. 

“I’d be worried about you Jakes,” he says, though his eyes dart over to Fancy too. 

Strange, already crouched beside Fancy swears. “He’s been shot.” Trewlove makes a choked noise, and Fancy waves a bloodsoaked hand. 

“It’s okay,” he says as DeBryn sets to work pressing his coat against Fancy’s stomach. Morse doesn’t have time to be mad at Fancy, or sad, or anything quite frankly, because Jakes’ is turning almost blue as he falls against his chest. 

“Peter?” He says, hating how thin his voice sounds. 

“Don’ worry Morse, m’fine,” he slurs, and then coughs up a mouthful of blood. The lie, weak as it is, stings. 

“Oh don’t you lie to me again Peter Jakes,” Morse tries as an attempt at humour but it falls rather flat. Jakes laughs anyways, a strained noise. 

“Okay, maybe not,” he says, taking a shuddering breath. Morse can’t help but watch the way his chest trembles, how it dips in when it’s supposed to rise, how there is something not right in the way Jakes is breathing. Bile rises in his throat, and something must show on his face because Jakes watery smile falls. 

“Morse? Wha’ is it?” 

Not right, that’s what it is but Morse can’t just say that to him, he can’t tell Jakes he’s seen the same thing, in those who wound up on DeBryn’s slab within the hour. 

The doctor finds his eye, and the look of horror in his eyes, poorly schooled into a grim sort of smile, tell Morse exactly how bad it is. So he licks his lips and presses a hand over Jakes’ chest and tries to smile.

“Nothing, nothing.” He takes a long breath and then does something he hasn’t done in such a long time. He lies.

“You’re fine, Peter, you’re going to be fine.” Beneath his hand, Jakes takes a shuddering gasp. His back arches and then something undoubtedly  _ crunches _ . Morse snaps his hand back, panic flooding him. Has he just signed Jakes death warrant?

His head feels heavy suddenly, fear closing in around him. It hurts too, a real flicker of pain running through him. It feels like it’s splitting him in half, cracking him open from the top down.

“Morse?” about three voices say at once. Distantly Morse wonders why he suddenly feels quite so terrible and then he realises; he’s just told the biggest lie he could. If he had the strength, he would have laughed. 

Jakes is closest, and he sounds a lot more sure than he did a moment ago, a lot less wet and rasping. Strange, who looks across Fancy, gives him a funny look, and Trewlove is grabbing at Morse’s shirt sleeve, like she thinks Morse is about to pass out. Which he is. Noisy, angry static roars in his ears and turns everything to black.

As Jakes sits up, his chest less concave than before, his breathing a little easier, Morse drops like a rock. DeBryn catches him with a cry, hands frantic as he searches for a sign of life. The men around him scrabble to reach for the detective in his lap, and he pushes them away. He has to find breath in Morse, a heartbeat or a sigh or anything, but there is only silence.

The all encompassing noise of nothingness swallows them whole. The world goes deathly still. It is broken by Jakes. The noise from his lips is almost inhuman, but it’s there, he screams  _ Morse. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ??? is this??? is this good i dont know anymore??? i mean yall can probably predict what will happen next right? so like i envision one more chapter of this i hope u are enjoying reading it? thanks for stopping by if u have read this far!! love ya!!

**Author's Note:**

> eeee i hope u guys enjoyed this as much as i did writing it! thank you to imaginationtherapy for screaming through this with me and helping me plan it out! you rock!! 
> 
> i'd love to hear what y'all think, any predictions you have for powers lol, i have one for everyone EXCEPT bright, so if anyone can think what kinda magic he might have... 
> 
> thanks for reading, i hope to be back soooon!


End file.
